ArchivedLogs:Reaching Out

Reaching Out
Dramatis Personae Emma, Hive	2013-03-28 '
Location <NYC> Hellfire Clubhouse - Upper East Side
Monochrome elegance at its finest: the Hellfire Club plays home to New York's elite, and has spared no expense in making that clear. Black and white marble tiles the floor, the pattern distinctly that of a chessboard. Rich wood paneling lines the walls, and the alcoves of the entry hall hold statues reminiscent of chess pieces. Meeting and dining halls provide plentiful space for the club's members to congregate, whatever their needs. The Hellfire's library, while far smaller than its ballroom in size, is far more prized in content. Hundreds of volumes line the meticulously tended shelves, the rarest kept carefully in climate-controlled cases under the watchful eye of the mansion's librarian. High-backed leather chairs and plush couches provide quiet reading spaces beneath soft lighting, and tall windows look out to the mansion's gardens beyond. The main ballroom of the mansion is vast and opulent, its ceiling vaulted and the balconies above curving gracefully away from the grand staircase -- an ideal place from which to Make An Entrance. The hallways that branch off from the staircase run in opposing monochrome: the stark white court's quarters to one side, the dark black court's quarters to the other. The party may be ended and most of the guests fled or evacuated, but -- but. /But/. On the mental plane there is still a /host/ of presences, far more than are actually still present in the club. It's hard to pinpoint where they are coming from. And as time wears on they're /muted/, quiet, a soft background white-noise that is hard to pick up any distinct sounds from. It might be coming from Jax, though he's certainly not a telepath. It might be coming from Micah, though he isn't even a /mutant/. One of the reporters there has a notably louder buzz to her, too. Actually, a /lot/ of the people who were in the vicinity during the chaos have a strangely crowded undertone to their thoughts; one that is slowly organizing and restructuring itself to be just a little quieter, just a little less buzzy. Emma is keeping busy in the the aftermath. Her mind is only half shielded, a necessary evil when it comes to dealing with suspicious telepaths, a mess of emotionally unstable people likely spilling reactions to the evening's activities, and to aid with the physical reactions to trauma - to attempt to appear vulnerable and honest. She doesn't need to, though. She could lock her brain down tight and hide, but it wouldn't serve her purposes. After a brief and slightly degrading converation with Zarita in which she looked the part of a shellshocked victim - and sent the weaker telepath to investigate, she hides herself in her office for a while, peeling off the evening's gown and undergarments, changing into the gym clothes she keeps tucked away in a drawer in one of her closets. Here, Emma has a moment just to stand still and listen, shucking off her connection with Zarita when she's not looking and really listening to the whole of the mansion. She feels the buzz of that presence - one that has been assigned the name 'Hive' throughout the building. She can feel some of the echoes of that presence diminishing in the organization. As she cleans some of the mess out of her hair and ties it back in a pony tail, she removes her earrings and locks them away in a small safe. She focuses on what faces she can and finds it very strange that the powers don't match up with the persons that are resonating them. Finally cleaned up, she heads back out into the lobby and looks around. She has the presence of someone who has been there and is shaken, but plays the part of holding it together to a T. She wets her lips and considers briefly before striking up a conversation with it. << Hive? I know you're out there. I can feel you. >> At this there is another shifting. The drone grows a little louder, mutes a little again. It takes a short moment before one voice manages to surface out of this chatter. Sort-of one voice, anyway. It's one /entity/, certainly, but the words come in a chorusing medley of voices, of feelings, a lot of different minds unifying to produce this one presence. << We are out here, >> it agrees, and it sounds just a little amused, just a lot tired. << And in here. And out there. Sorry. About your party. >> << Yeah, I don't know if apologies are in order at this point or if a note of appreciation is warranted. >> Emma replies wryly, taking herself to the bar at long length to check on some of the club members and guests using this as an excuse to indulge in more alcohol. << I know I distinctly told Mr. Holland 'no telepaths' but you being here allowed me the excuse not to act myself. Perhaps this is just a moment to acknowledge each other's existences. You know I am Emma Frost? >> A mental picture of herself sprucing up in front of the mirror in her office is offered as a psionic profile card. << We kind of took liberties, >> comes a little wryly, with a soft flicker-feeling of -- /growing/, expanding, /pulling/ all the minds around into a swelling sense of power. << But those kids seemed kind of unbalanced. They'd have gotten themselves killed, maybe. >> There's almost a sense of regret, here. Like maaaybe he was /hoping/ they'd take out Osborn /first/, but. Alas. Sometimes you need to act. << We know you. >> This is quiet, a little uncertain, touching at that image and then taking it to filter it through a jumbled storm of manypeople'smemories. << We know you, >> the second time is more confident. The smell of Chinese food, the rich taste of hot pot, the spiking ohshit feeling of a news article on mummified bodies. << Oh. The many headed Hydra. >> Emma remembers an earlier remark in response to the scent and taste of the food that day. She considers quietly as she remembers the feel of his mind from that day and frowns. << Where are you? I don't believe I've seen you all night. >> She orders a shot of whiskey at the bar, a popular choice of the evening and tosses it back, sharing the feeling of the booze burn its way down her throat. << So you're tied in with the Shadow lady and the one with the fantastic muscles? >> Nox and Tatters briefly flash in her mind's eye. << We are here, >> comes the faintly puzzled reply, evidently not particularly distinguishing physical presence from mental one. << You have seen us. >> This comes with a flicker image of Jackson, of Micah. The question of Nox and Tatters gets a vague sense of negation. << They are not us. >> The tastefeel of whisky is reached for, a soft mental press that curls around the shared feeling and savors it with a not insignificant note of longing. << Guess the Club doesn't skimp on their alcohol. >> << No. I have seen your children. I haven't seen you. >> Emma replies, firmly. It is good to have confirmation of Jackson and Micah's involvement, figuring Holland managed to sneak by the rules by citing the letter of the law (no telepaths), but not the spirit. She inhales once more, recognizing the longing and orders another shot. She can hold her liquor and this is encourages the conversation. << No, no skimping, and alcohol is not actually the biggest expense on our budget, believe it or not. >> She quietly reflects that this month's budget will be devoted to restoring the club's ballroom - though, maybe she can put together a fundraiser to appease the members. << What is your range? >> She might as well ask. << We are here, >> Hive says again, puzzled, and it takes an actual reaching-out, touching Emma's mind lightly to discern what she might mean by this. After this it takes more thought, more filtering, subtle shift-rearranging of the crowdvoices that jumble together before he picks out: << We are here. >> This time, an image of the inside of a cell, clearly jail or something like it; standard prison-metal toilet, skimpy cots, thin grey blankets, bars, a number of people moping listlessly together. << Yeeeah, mmm, do you usually budget for explosions? >> The question of range earns another brief moment of puzzled thought. << Everywhere, >> comes the eventual answer, with a flutter of firefly-/blips/ of light scattered throughout the city. Each light a mind, each mind /Hive/. Emma is accepting of the touch, allowing him access only to the superficial though, everything below shielded tight. She turns the shot glass in her fingers when it arrives, letting a finger touch the surface of the amber liquid and touching it to her tongue gently. << Impressive. >> she lifts the glass and takes a sip, the burn elongated for Hive's experience - especially when she begins to understand how cut off he is. << Your ability is fascinating. I take it that (youplural) are going to take care of those kids? I'm not going to have to turn them over to the police? >> Osborn is going to kill her. Norman Osborn is going to kill her. Not even ensuring those kids ended up in his care (something she would never do) would appease him. She's still not willing to go all out and lash out at him yet. She'd rather run. << So, Prison. Did you rob someone? >> Again Hive curls around that feeling, rather relishing the burn of the whisky. << The kids could vanish, >> he says, thoughtfully turning over when might be the /best/ time for this without implicating anyone at the party. << There may have been truth in what they said. Seems -- kind of shitty to turn them from one cage into another. >> A sharp spike of something -- amused? frustrated? Angry? All these things jumbled together? rises brief at the question, sort of like a mental laugh. Maybe a bitter one. << Yes, >> he says, at the thought of robbing someone, and just for a second there's memories here, too. Cages, still, cells; not this one, though, somewhere starker and colder. The memory is tamped down before it has time to surface more, though. << No. Not prison. Holding cell. Deportation. >> << Deportation? Hmmm. >> Emma considers as she drinks down more alcohol. << Interesting. >> she reflects. << Very interesting. >> She's keeping every breadcrumb that he offers her about the Prometheus facility. She briefly shows her hand, letting him see everything she's snatched from Jackson, Parley, Peter, and himself on the subject of Norman Osborn and the mutant experimentation. << You should know I am sympathetic to your cause, but I would like to know more information. Would you accept a trade of mutually beneficial help - to provide what we need from the other? >> << Deportation, >> Hive affirms, and the feelings here are mingled; a muggy-warm salt-crisp tang that feels strongly like /home/; a flutter of mind-feelings of various people jumbled together that -- also feels strongly like home. He is slower, more cautious, as he threads through the snatches of information Emma has already gleaned. << What do you need from us? >> comes almost in tandem with, << What can you do for us? >>, the two concepts mingling inextricably together in this mental communication. << What I can do for you depends entirely on how much you want to do for me. >> Emma tosses back the last of the shot and orders one last one, feeling the whiskey mingle with the champagne in her stomach. It's soothing her nerves after Osborn's -- << what the hell did he do that girl >> is the only true slip up Emma gives, her mind thinking louder than she expected. It's not flowing with her current conversation but wouldn't mind Hive answering it anyway. << I am not the most powerful person in the club - but we have a huge hole in the ballroom now and you're an architect. If I say that the club wants /you/ - needs you to fix it, you would owe me something suitably large. >> Here the impression is that the Hellfire Club gets what it wants. << If you're not willing to sell your soul tonight, then we could simply exchange information - which you in turn could give to your children to work on that front to /stop/ what is happening in those... facilities. I want to know what you know because I could have a better idea of what is going on. We do swim in different circles. I could be helpful. >> The mention of the girl stirs a reflexive recoiling from Hive's mental presence, twitching away from the thought of Osborn with a distinct taste of discomfort. << The girl -- >> But he doesn't answer, though there's a vague sense that he almost had. He is quiet, now, considering. << You say that, >> he says eventually, wry, << as though we had a soul to sell. We're good at information, though. And we want those places shut down. >> Another brief subsiding into quiet. << You could be helpful. We could be helpful. We do swim in different circles, but -- >> The mental image here is like a venn diagram! Circles. Overlapping. << Yes, but each other's different perspectives are useful. >> Emma agrees, quietly. << Look, you're being coy, darling hydra, and I've had a rough night >> and may be killed by Osborn at any minute. << What do you want to know? I function on a quid pro quo basis. I do something for you, you do something for me. You give me information I can use, and I'll give you something equally useful. >> She knocks back the drink and relishes the burn once more before leaving the glass behind and heading back to the ballroom. << You give me information that will help me defend myself against Osborn, I will clear up your immigration issues in the short term. >> Emma is promising him legitimate work for a time, but then his visa will be in his hands. << and you need to fix my ballroom. >> This comes with another ripple of perhaps-laughter. << Your ballroom we can manage. >> There's a stretch of silence -- stark silence, the myriad voices that compose Hive fading off into blankness. He returns not with words but with memory, feeling. That mental /growth/ opening up in him to /swallow/ the girl. Jackson telling him Peter's theory on the monster that attacked Peter in the sewers /being/ Osborn. Oscorp's waiter-drones, not serving drinks but killing his friends during the lab raid. << Right now, >> he answers eventually, << I >> not we this time! << just want to go home. After that I want to take these assholes down. >> The hard edge in his words here mostly revolves around Prometheus. For him Osborn is just a tangential evil. << And I want to live long enough to help you, >> Emma replies with a small sigh, examining the information carefully. << Is the girl alive? >> << Yes, >> Hive answers, and then, << But I'm not sure she would have been in a different situation. >> This comes with many connotations behind it: somewhere less public, somewhere less chaotic where Norman's involvement would have been more obvious; on her own without Hive tugging at her mind. The beast that rose up to swallow her left the telepath /distinctly/ unsettled, even in his current state of what is /clearly/ an inordinate amount of mental power. << You'll live. He's dangerous. But he's just one man. Whatever he's planning, it can be stopped. >> << Thank you. >> Problems are more easily solved when they don't involve instakills. Emma draws in a deep breath and begins to move about with more determination, part of her brain already drafting the proposal to the management about the need for... oh. << What's your legal name? >> << You got a pen? >> Hive answers wryly. << S'Jet. >> Which doesn't probably need to be written to be remembered, but: << Jetsadayut Suphamongkhon, >> might. He says it slow. Even helpfully spells it out, on a mental image of a blackboard. Emma ends up really appreciating the mental blackboard. She takes the name down on her cellphone. << I hope you are a good architect. I'd hate for this to come bite me in the ass with poor workmanship. >> She is teasing now, perfectly capable of coming in after him with other experts, but still making it look like Hive did the work if he is terrible. She wants other things from him. << If you're amazing though, this could really help your career. >> << We're amazing. >> This he at least says with confidence. There's brief flitting memories -- a science lab building on a college campus upstate, a tall and rather striking building nestled amidst the clutter of the Lower East Side -- this second one has the feel not so much of something he's seen but something he's /envisioned/. A project underway, and not yet complete (and boy is he /kind of cranky/ about being in a cell instead of working on it.) They are both rather handsomely-crafted buildings, though. << Should probably let you get back to your crisis. >> He's kind of watching the goings-on in the aftermath of attack, viewing this from a /number/ of different angles as he slips seamlessly in and out of a few of the emergency responders who have shown up. His crowded mental presence shifts and changes with each new mind taken, each old one dropped. << Be in touch, though. >> << Just keep in mind that some of the people in the Hellfire club have secrets and strategems that extend for years. Be careful who you spend too much time with. Those minds you are borrowing may come after you. >> It's only polite to warn him. Emma does indeed go back to work. This is going to continue to be a be a long night for her. Hive accepts this warning not with words but with a quiet brush of acknowledgment, of cautious thanks. And then his presence withdraws, pulling back quietly as the burble of voices settles down into something muted once more.